Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Letter
by hophophop
Summary: "...the days are long in this grey place." Spoilers for 2x03, "We Are Everyone," with apologies to Wallace Stevens.


**note: We don't know when Sherlock received this letter (thanks to G for pointing this out to me), and I couldn't decide when I thought it happened, so I decided not to pick just one moment. If it's not obvious (in which case, my bad), these vignettes cover a range of scenarios and are not all compatible with each other.**

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_"...the days are long in this grey place."_

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**I**

The brownstone had been quiet for hours when he heard the chunk of mail dropped into the box. In retrospect, if he'd left it as he usually did for Watson to collect, how different might things have been? No use speculating. He'd been bored, Watson gone all afternoon already and not expected back for hours yet. It had been many months since he last suffered the doldrums in the lull between cases, thanks to their training regimen. But today he was on his own, the mail arrived, and he collected it in hopes of diversion. And indeed, he was diverted.

**II**

The mail was in the box when Joan came back from her run, and she recognized the handwriting immediately, gut sinking as the single word in the return address corner confirmed it. She slid it all back, free coupon flyer in front, credit card offer behind, and carefully closed the lid. She gave in to the urge to wipe off her hand on the side of her shorts.

Sitting on the stoop in the bright fall sunshine, she considered her options. Seemed likely that liberated, post-love Sherlock might have some difficulty with this situation. Although it was entirely possible this was not the first volley; it was all too easy to imagine him keeping a correspondence from her. This correspondence, in particular.

All right. She heaved a sigh. He had made it very clear he did not want to discuss what that woman had done to him. She had been startled when he referred to Moriarty in terms of recovery; she wasn't sure if that was a healthy thing or a red flag. Either way, at least there was acknowledged awareness of something to recover from. That was all she could hope for. She would leave the mail for him to collect and say nothing; he would tell her about the letter or he would not. She hoped Jeff would at least be diverting enough to distract her from worrying about this all night. A high bar.

**III**

It slipped his notice for days at a time now, and the recollection became less jarring, like tripping over a raised pavement stone rather than falling off a cliff. Sealed, the letter was inert. Harmless. The slim possibility it contained a threat to be defused within some arbitrary time limit did make his fingers itch. Moriarty made sure nothing was impossible, and that fear loomed in his dreams on the rare occasion he let them loose. The rational thing, the proper thing, would be to bring Watson in to the case, examine the evidence logically. He found nothing to suffice as a spark for that conversation as the months went by.

**IV**

Twice in as many days, after weeks of dormancy, the name that still has the power to jolt his pulse comes up in conversation. He can't help but think of the letter received months ago, still unread and now hidden among his poison monographs.

It's an opportunity he lets slide with the rationalization that they have a murderer to pursue. Bringing up the letter now would only distract her from the work. When the case is done and their home restored from Everyone's disruption, he'll let her know. The two of them will have time to discuss it then, without extraneous distractions.

**V**

Twice in as many days, after weeks of dormancy, the name that still has the power to jolt his pulse comes up in conversation. They have a murderer to pursue; this is not the time. (It will never be time if he has any say in the matter.)

The case comes to as satisfying a conclusion as it can; one murderer caught and the information he released slowly corroding the rusted gears of secrecy that shrouded others' heinous acts. Watson demonstrated a level of initiative that makes him eager to offer her more opportunities to shine, and once they have cleaned up Everyone's mess of their accounts, they may begin.

He's consequently somewhat disappointed by her plans and her futile effort to indulge in romantic fantasy that will ultimately come to nought. No matter; they have all the days ahead. He's passing through the foyer when the mail arrives, and he collects it to dump on the lock room table for Watson to sort when she returns. He stumbles against the stool when the stack settles to reveal the handwriting on the plain square envelope.

**VI**

"Hey, here's the mail, I'm late." Sweaty from her run, Watson shoved the stack of envelopes into his hand and hurried into the study to plug in her phone. Normally she reviewed the mail, as he disliked wasting time sorting through the detritus that was delivered to them this way. Aside from the occasional periodical unavailable online or the even rarer request for consultation in print form, there was never anything—

The square shape stuck out among the standardized envelope orientation, and from the top half of the one word written in the corner he knew what it was. Watson knocked a stack of papers off her desk and swore, then grumbled as she stooped to collect them. His fingers cramped around the paper in his hands as his heart took off. Irritation flared at the involuntary responses spawned by a few lines of ink. He pressed his lips tightly and forced his hands under his control.

Watson's own irritation with the state of her desk distracted her from his agitation, and she stomped upstairs muttering to herself and ignoring him. He stood by the lock table and stared at the envelope, forcing his breath slowly in through the nose and out through the mouth. Three times, and then he snatched up the letter and slid it into the Mozart biography in a stack by the locks. The original german edition, making it much less likely to be something Watson might pick up (simultaneously his continually updated mental list of things she should learn was edited to move 'additional languages' two levels up in priority).

**VII**

Joan came downstairs the next morning, once again left to sleep until she woke up. He was sitting by the fireplace again; no, on closer examination he was sitting there _still_: same clothes, bloodshot eyes, same piece of paper on his lap. He stared at the floor and did not look up but extended his arm holding the page out to her.

"I received this in the mail yesterday," he said in a hoarse voice, and the paper shivered slightly in the air with his words. She stepped toward him slowly and took the letter, and his arm and head dropped all at once.

**VIII**

The letter felt heavy in his hand, and against it he felt his pulse throbbing at his fingertips as if it were his heart constrained inside.

**IX**

He knew exactly what he was doing. The strictly monitored dosage, the extensively rationalized schedule, the shock of the first hit and the inexorable pull down, down into the abyss, so familiar and comforting, even as it made him want to kill himself for returning yet again. The sweet second when everything else disappeared, and it was just him and the terror of the impossible. At first it was once a week. Carefully raise the flap, slip the sturdy folded sheet from its bed. Hold it. Do not smell it. All right, try, but you won't discern more than paper and time spent on mail trucks. He could recite the words now, really by the second read they were set. The next trick was to remember the voice, and get it just so. Soon that became a daily ritual, and then twice, at start and end. Loose terms for his sleep schedule to be sure; nevertheless.

Three months since he first picked up the stack of mail where Watson had dropped it to run to the bathroom. The paper was heavy and caught his attention immediately. Then he saw the handwritten address and froze. He heard the shudder of pipes upstairs and jammed the unopened envelope into his coat pocket. From the stairs Watson asked, "Are you all right?"

"Never better."

**X**

Her handwriting had always surprised him, girlish and innocent at first glance with its loops and curls. Under analysis complexity emerged, of course, and he found evidence of her there, proof enough to put aside the initial impression of disconnect between person and hand. Looking at her words again brought that gap to the fore, and he felt suspended over the abyss, caught between what he wanted and what he knew.

**XI**

It was a little disappointing that Watson hadn't accepted his view of their lives as custom-made to meet their needs without the clutter of unnecessary attachments, but he was confident she would come around in time. He spent the day attending to Everyone's mischief and butressing security measures in preparation for any future incursion. Watson came back from her run and left again some hours later for her date. The inner door had not quite latched behind her and was banging with changes in air pressure, and after he lit the fire, he went to check the mail before securing the door. A lovely evening, sky turning indigo at the end of dusk; standing on the threshold he wondered if Watson had a view, wherever they were going. The mail was all junk, as usual; a credit card bill for Watson (she really should transition to electronic records), and one other envelope…

The sound of the door opening again hours later brought him back to the present, and he looked up to see her notice him, a little flustered from the transition from a kiss outside, apparently, to him, and home. The invisible weight of what he held in his hands made it difficult to breathe, and he was afraid to move for fear of spilling it like tar across the floor. He said something to distract her, redirect her attention from him, and eased as she turned away. And then she turned back and spoke the words that the ones he'd been reading made meaningless. She made her way upstairs, and Moriarty continued her work, undermining all he held dear. That he knew exactly what she intended made no difference. She wasn't planting a seed but rather pulling the curtain aside to remind him what he already believed to be true.

**XII**

Joan undressed slowly, wishing there was something she could say. The easy conversation with Jeff had been such a pleasant respite from the intensity of her day-to-day engagement with work and with Sherlock. Their rapport had been simple and direct, eased by his kindness in checking up on her, and the evening had gone by at a comfortable pace. In the face of Sherlock's scrutiny, uncharacteristically mild as it had been, she equivocated: There had been a spark, gentle and friendly, with Jeff. A mild kiss that was no peck on the cheek but still ten steps out from passion, at least. She hadn't been watching the clock but was happy to be home, refreshed and ready to dive back into the whirlwind.

Once in bed and laptop opened, she thought again about Sherlock downstairs, sitting alone. He'd been reading a letter, a rare enough occurrence that she should have noted it immediately, asked about it. Perhaps it was a connection for him, somewhere out there in the world. His subdued distraction had pulled her attention as she turned to the stairs, like cloth caught on a splinter. He had refrained from mocking her, strange enough, and she felt compelled by his silence to speak. Conversation had flowed so easily with Jeff, on inconsequential topics and some serious ones. Not too much for a first foray, and she had intentionally avoided the trickier details about her work and about Sherlock. She'd had to check herself repeatedly on that account, conscious of the impropriety of talking non-stop about one man with another. She really did want other people to know him as she did, as much for herself as for him, to be honest. She didn't want to be the only one.

**XIII**

My Dear Irene,

These dreary weeks stretch interminably when you are away. The Dutch masters to whom you administer your care have no way to appreciate the contribution I make to their preservation by not finding some Nederland crime lord in need of capture to give me rational purpose for a flight to Amsterdam. Instead I am left with cold cases and the clatter of Scotland Yard's finest.

For a long while now, I have suspected that connection with another person, real connection, simply isn't possible. I'm curious if you disagree, although I suspect you feel as I do in this, as you do in so many other things. So tell me; is it possible to truly know another person? Is it even a worthwhile pursuit?

Yours is the only opinion I'll trust, the only point of view that holds even the faintest interest. I find my diversions, as I always do, but the nights are long in this grey city.

When you return I hope you may be ready satisfy my curiosity about your project as well.

SH


End file.
